


Avoidance Strategies

by linndechir



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DC Extended Universe
Genre: Developing Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-30 08:27:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20094262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linndechir/pseuds/linndechir
Summary: Bruce has been avoiding Clark. And while Clark usually knows to let him brood in peace, this time he doesn't want to play by Bruce's rules.





	Avoidance Strategies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Holdt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Holdt/gifts).

Bruce had been avoiding him. That in itself wasn’t too odd – to call him moody would have been an understatement, and he could go from being almost pleasant (for his standards) to standoffish and curt without any apparent reason. Clark sometimes wondered if the reasons were even clear to Bruce himself. They probably were to Alfred, but as infallibly polite and welcoming as he was to Clark, he was a closed book when it came to Bruce.

In Bruce’s defence, this time he did have a reason. Not a good reason, as far as Clark was concerned, but a reason. Though Clark still wasn’t entirely sure if that reason was how much Bruce hated letting anyone see him injured (bleeding, half-unconscious, weak enough that Diana had had to shield him and Clark had carried him home under Bruce’s gruff protests), or the fact that they’d ended up in bed together when Clark had gone to check in on him the next evening. The latter had been simultaneously surprising and not surprising at all, not after weeks and months of an angry kind of tension that had been hard to misinterpret, but that Clark had doubted Bruce would ever do anything about. After all, that too was a thing that made him human, and Bruce so seemed to hate those.

Ever since Clark had returned from the dead, he’d been trying to figure out the various nuances of Bruce’s odd behaviour – the things that made him angry and, worse, the things that made him ashamed, which usually manifested in a different kind of anger. One thing he’d learnt quickly enough was that it was best to leave Bruce alone when he wanted to be, that sooner or later he came around and called and demanded Clark show up to give him a hand with something, not that Bruce ever phrased it as asking for help. Clark wondered how often Alfred was the driving force behind that anyway.

But in this particular case – when he remembered the sensation of Bruce’s hands on his skin, the angry growl when Clark had been “too careful” with him, the look on his face when he’d finally relaxed into the sheets – Clark didn’t feel like playing by Bruce’s rules. 

Which was why he was here, covering some high society gala he couldn’t care less about because he’d heard Bruce Wayne was attending, and while coming to Gotham uninvited tended to displease Bruce a little, hopefully Clark Kent was less offensive to him than Superman. Certainly less offensive than Superman showing up at the lake house. Clark somehow doubted that would have gone the same way it had last time.

He’d seen Bruce do his Bruce Wayne act often enough, but that didn’t make it any less disturbing every single time. The vapidness, the smooth surface that was completely impenetrable in both directions, giving nothing away and letting nothing come close. That smile that somehow managed to be charming and unpleasant at the same time, the smile of a man whose approval one craved while simultaneously hating oneself for wanting to be liked by him at all. Clark tried to make eye contact a few times, even approached him under the guise of wanting a quote or two, but he was brushed off like water running over glass, like he was barely there, a nuisance not even worth a sarcastic quip to entertain the beautiful woman on his arm, who seemed to be as much part of the costume as Bruce’s expression and the martini glass in his right hand. Even watching him, Clark couldn’t quite figure out how Bruce managed to empty it so often without actually getting drunk.

But the good thing about Bruce was that he hated those parties as much as Clark did, meaning that he wasn’t there for fun either. All Clark had to do was wait long enough for Bruce to leave his date by the bar with some flimsy excuse of needing fresh air before he slipped away with a subtlety Clark couldn’t help but admire. Bruce was a large man, taller than Clark and broad as a bull, but for all that he could draw the entire room’s attention in just a few seconds, he could be just as unobtrusive if he wished to be. Quiet, quick, gone so fast that Clark almost lost sight of him. But Bruce’s heartbeat was too distinctive to miss it in a room full of socialites, as slow as any soldier’s or professional athlete’s. Clark had never mentioned to him how easy that made him to track. He didn’t want to know what kind of contraption Bruce would inevitably come up with to foil Clark.

Clark readjusted his glasses and hunched his shoulders a bit more as he followed him. In his own way, he was as good at making himself invisible as Bruce was. The gala was being held on the top floor of the Gotham Bank’s head quarters, with guards keeping the guests away from anywhere but the main elevator down to the entrance. But Bruce had planned ahead, of course, slipped through dark passageways, lured one guard from his post so he could make his way to the director’s office. Clark followed him, not quite sure if Bruce noticed him or not. He couldn’t tell if the surprise on Bruce’s face was real or feinted when Clark stepped into the office just a minute after Bruce to find him bent over the computer. The surprise gave way to the relaxed smile of a rich man who’d never been in trouble for anything in his life.

“Did you get lost on your way to the bathroom, too? This building is a maze …”

If Clark hadn’t been looking for it, he would have missed the slight movement of Bruce’s left hand as he slipped a USB drive into his pocket, distracted by the way Bruce was leaning against the desk, by the flush in his cheeks and the way his charcoal suit clung to his shoulders.

“Really, Bruce?” Clark asked, keeping his voice low as he stepped closer. Why Bruce bothered with this charade when Clark wouldn’t buy it anyway was beyond him. Maybe they weren’t friends, maybe they never would be, but they’d become partners, and Clark hated Bruce treating him like anyone else out there at that gala, like anyone else who had no idea there was more to Bruce Wayne than met the eye. In some ways, he probably knew Bruce better than anyone but Alfred did, but maybe that was precisely the problem. Bruce didn’t like being known any more than he liked being human.

Bruce raised an eyebrow, shifted his weight and gave Clark an almost filthy look.

“_Bruce_, hm? I can’t say I remember your name, but clearly we’ve met before,” he drawled, made “met” sound like a hundred euphemisms all at once, one dirtier than the other, and Clark felt a sharp crackle of anger go up his spine. He’d been trying so hard to navigate Bruce’s … Bruceness, to respect his various idiosyncrasies, to let himself be avoided and ignored as if he was the one who had started this whole mess between them. And all it got him was the same – the same _bullshit_ as months ago, when every step in cracking Bruce’s armour only led to him doubling down on his defences. As if he still didn’t trust Clark.

Clark moved faster than he knew Bruce’s eye could see, stopped too close in front of him and grabbed him by the tie. He didn’t miss the controlled intake of breath, the fight-ready tension in Bruce’s body even as he didn’t move a single muscle. In moments like this, Bruce seemed like a well-oiled machine. Only he wasn’t, he was human still, human and injured, ribs broken and bruised and a faint smell of blood and antiseptic lingering underneath his cologne.

“Don’t do that,” Clark growled, his face only an inch from Bruce’s. He had Bruce trapped against that large desk, breathed in his smell, felt his warmth. It was nothing like that night a week ago – Bruce’s too large bed, the sheets softer than anything Clark had ever felt before, Bruce’s face still pale and drawn, their touches languid and slow and still as intense as anything Bruce ever did. Clark hadn’t really known why he’d come here tonight – talking to Bruce when Bruce didn’t want to be talked to was only ever a futile exercise in frustration, and he’d hardly _planned_ to pin him to a desk in the bank director’s office. 

He hadn’t planned it, but Bruce was right there, in one of those ridiculously expensive suits he wore so well, his eyes unreadable as ever, but he wasn’t trying to push Clark away. Didn’t even snap at him.

Instead he only said, “Do what?”, but he’d already dropped that sleazy note from his voice. He sounded like himself again.

“Don’t give me that Bruce Wayne shit,” Clark said, and that drew an actual laugh from Bruce’s lips.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you swear before.”

Clark had to fight the urge to roll his eyes, settled instead for pressing Bruce more firmly against the desk. He kept the pressure to the left side, away from Bruce’s injuries. He hoped Bruce wouldn’t notice, when Clark had already bit his tongue to keep himself from telling Bruce that he shouldn’t be here, that he should be resting at home instead of pretending that he was somehow above such paltry concerns as age and injury.

“You bring it out in people,” Clark said, and instead of giving Bruce more opportunities to argue and deflect, he kissed him. It was angrier than the last time, less concern and more pent-up frustration that Bruce still kept him at arm’s length. Diana insisted that it was shame, a guilt so profound he didn’t think he could ever move past it. Maybe she had a point, but most of the time Bruce was simply being an infuriating prick to the point where Clark didn’t even know why the hell he liked the man.

Bruce only hesitated for a split second before he kissed him back, and even Clark could tell there was nothing of Bruce Wayne in that kiss – that was entirely the Bat’s angry intensity, in the way he bit Clark’s lip and grabbed his hair and surged against him as if every single muscle in his body tensed at the same time. Clark lifted him up onto the desk without even thinking about it, tried not to feel too smug at the sharp groan that drew from Bruce. He doubted Bruce made a habit of sleeping with people who could lift him like he weighed nothing, but he clearly seemed to enjoy it nevertheless.

Clark groaned when Bruce pulled on his hair to break the kiss, watched him lick his lips, watched a strand of that immaculately coiffed hair curl over his temple.

“You picked the worst possible place for this.” Bruce wasn’t out of breath yet – Clark knew it took more than a kiss for that – but there was a tightness to his voice that made heat pool in Clark’s groin. Bruce was always so controlled, so tightly wound that even affecting him in such small ways was dizzying.

Clark snorted, gave a playful tug on Bruce’s tie.

“You’re Bruce Wayne, right? As if anyone would lift an eyebrow at you seducing a naive young reporter in a place you’re not supposed to be.” Clark didn’t particularly relish the thought of ending up in a gossip magazine as Bruce Wayne’s newest squeeze, but he wasn’t actually worried about anyone walking in on them. Not when Clark would hear any steps in the corridor early enough for them to disappear from the office. “Look at it that way, I’m helping your cover.”

“For entirely unselfish reasons, of course,” Bruce said dryly, but Clark wasn’t worried. Bruce was never shy about making his displeasure known, and if he was still here, it was because he wanted to be. Clark closed his eyes for a moment when Bruce ran his fingertips over his face – brushing a curl of hair behind his ear, touching his temples before they lingered on Clark’s cheek. Right where he’d cut him during their fight. Sometimes Clark still woke up from nightmares and felt that burn in his flesh, felt that primal fear in his bones. Maybe he should have hated Bruce instead of wanting him. Maybe he should have pulled away instead of leaning into that touch, instead of taking Bruce’s wrist and guiding it away from his cheek, from that memory that weighed so heavily on both of them. Instead he turned his head to kiss Bruce’s fingertips, those rough callouses no manicure in the world could get rid of, then his knuckles, not bruised for once but covered in countless tiny, faded scars. He kept kissing them, nuzzled the soft skin between them, and when he looked up to meet Bruce’s eyes again, he found them glassy with want. 

He’d have to figure out how to go easy on him without letting Bruce notice that he was trying not to tear open his stitches, but maybe if he bent him over the desk and let Bruce adjust to a comfortable position, that would work out. Or maybe he’d simply go to his knees and get his lips around Bruce’s cock, let Bruce make him gag on it as if he needed to remind himself that he couldn’t actually choke Clark. As if there was some sort of catharsis in not being able to hurt him unless he really, really set his mind to it again.

Bruce didn’t look like he’d be picky about either of those options, not the way he grabbed Clark’s chin and pulled him into another rough kiss.

At some point later that night, with his hand grabbing a fistful of Bruce’s hair and his cock buried deep inside him, with Bruce’s moans muffled against the beautiful fabric of his suit jacket and his body trembling with pleasure he couldn’t hide no matter how quiet he wanted to be, Clark decided that the next time Bruce tried to avoid him, Clark simply wouldn’t let him.


End file.
